


Me and Mine

by sleepsick



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bonding, Bullying, Dubious Consent, F/M, Knotting, M/M, Peter Parker Whump, Pining, Polyamory, Possessive Behavior, Scenting, house bunny peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-06-28 10:25:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15705354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepsick/pseuds/sleepsick
Summary: The woman turned to Peter, and now he could tell she was a doctor. Something about the eerie steadiness of her eyes.“I’m going to cut right to the point. Peter is an exceptional omega. The first we’ve encountered in this district like him under the age of forty.”Omega.Peter had to stop himself from curling up on the seat.(Or: a young Peter Parker is recruited by the Avengers, but for a special purpose.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Peter is 15 in this fic! Y'all have been warned. Most of the tags at this point are for future chapters.  
> If you consent to those terms, go forth and enjoy.

Peter looked at his sneakers.

He’d been to the principal’s office before, only once, when Abe Brown had gotten pantsed in middle school. Wrong-place-wrong-time sort of incident: Brown (only hovering one notch below Peter on the social totem pole, who was already a little twerp and obsessed with physics, both dangerous things to be in junior high) had been waddling down West Hall during passing period when— _bam_ —there he was on the ground next to Peter Parker’s locker, cargo shorts around his ankles, tighty whities bared for anyone who might’ve stopped to gawk.

All the perp left behind? The loud slap of fast-moving high top soles on linoleum, already melding into the crowd.

Peter had instantly dropped his copy of _Holt Physics Student Edition_ and knelt down to help Brown, social survival instincts underdeveloped at best. The boy was crying; Peter was letting him dry his eyes on a wadded up piece of tissue, which he kept in his pocket in case of emergencies, when the track lighting was eclipsed by a long, dark shadow.

 _Security footage caught it all_ , his PE teacher growled as he dragged Peter by the backpack strap towards judgment. _Little bastards_.

Peter and Wade Wilson, always the next best bet, and whose file was fat from being perennially yanked from the cabinet, were stuffed in plastic chairs on the bad side of the principal’s desk. Wade needed jeans, and a chair, that were at least three sizes bigger; Peter’s unlaced New Balances hardly scuffed the carpet.

“Did you do it, Mr. Parker? You can be honest.”

The principal’s voice was calm and even. Peter bit at his tongue until the tears stopped pricking, looked up from his particularly tiny vantage point, and told Mr. Volpendesta, who probably weighed twice the desk he sat behind, the truth. That he had just been getting his textbook out of his locker. That he didn’t do it.

And the administration believed him. Of course they did; something about Peter had always said Good Kid irrevocably. Could have been the khakis, or the clean-trimmed hair at the nape of his neck. The way he busted out in a smile too easily for the other jaded kids his age, not too cool for school, just happy at the silliest things. Or how he was forever standing up for the smaller guy, even if his knees shook while doing it, all American good will and the desire to help laced tight into his little heart.

_Peter Parker? You think that kid did it? Hah! You probably traumatized him just by sending him into the office._

So, long story short, Wade Wilson had nursed a gnarly pubescent grudge against Peter Parker since the sixth grade, and he’d never had a reason to go to the principal’s office since.

 

Until today.

 

Peter looked at his shoes until he couldn’t anymore, and looked up at the wall in the office’s waiting area. There was a poster for D.A.R.E and for jazz band, and a flyer about how vaping contains as much nicotine as cigarettes, and a water cooler. He watched bubbles rise in the water cooler and wondered what Midtown High kids had sat in this same seat, what they’d done to get there. He wondered if this meant he, too, had been bad, done something wrong he couldn’t recognize or remember, and he started to push his fingernails into the meat of his palm as he considered this. The email from Principal Meyer had been so curt, just a time and place, a CC to Aunt May because her presence was required, too--

“Peter!”

His aunt still had on her scrubs from her shift at the hospital, cardigan shrugged on over top and a tote bag carrying her entire life thrown over one shoulder. She looked really tired.

“Hey,” he said, watching her shuffle down the hall. She sat down heavily on one of the waiting chairs next to him and immediately pulled out her phone.

“Any idea what this is about?” she asked, clearly waiting for some kind of confession. Somewhere between annoyed, proud, worried; Peter never got sent to the principal’s office. Ever. Peter wished he could tell her something stupid and appropriately highschoolish. _I got caught with a baggie of weed in my locker, Aunt May. Whoops._ Nothing mysterious about that.

 

“Nope,” he said, pop on the ‘p.’ “I wish I knew.”

 

He didn’t know how long they sat there, only that he was missing more and more of the Decathlon meeting by the minute. MJ said she’d take notes for him. Somewhere down the hall he could hear the faint _thud thud thud_ and squeal of sneakers that meant basketball practice was going on in the gym. Peter’s fingernails returned to their previously established grooves in his flesh.

 

“Peter Parker and…Mrs. Parker? Is that correct?” the desk secretary finally asked, some unknowable amount of time later. She was wearing a pair of reading glasses on a chain and looked absolutely settled in her seat; as if she had existed forever as a fixture of the office along with the filing cabinets and the whining fluorescent lights overhead. The prehistoric bones of New York brick in the walls.

 

“That’s me, yeah,” said Aunt May.

 

“You two can go in now.”

 

Aunt May went in first.

 

The office was surprisingly modern, lots of magnet school budget clearly poured into the metal and concrete and big windows to let in the bleached sky outside. If the waiting area was moldy-old, this was all new. A large recycled-wood desk stood staunchly at the middle of the room. Principal Meyer was sitting in a high-backed armchair beside the desk, the space behind it unoccupied, and Peter thought that maybe the whole cross-the-desk formality thing was out of style, now. All about warmth and manufactured familiarity; much better at getting into alum’s pockets.

Beside the principal was a woman was perched on an undersized, orange ottoman. Peter didn’t recognize her.

Principal Meyer, who Peter realized looked slightly less handsome in person than he did on the weekly Midtown High Flyer emails, stood and smiled, shook both their hands. Textbook alpha, scent dulled by a healthy bond and blockers, but still making Peter’s stomach tremble a little in anticipation.

“Hello, and welcome,” he said. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to meet with us today. This is Dr. Kaspbrak, the physician that oversees our student health office.” The woman smiled and shook their hands, too: loose grip, cold palm, skin smelling beta-plain.

“Please, take a seat.” He gestured to two other matching, orange ottomans.

Peter and Aunt May sat.

 

Principal Meyer— _please, call me Geoff_ \-- made some brief small talk about Peter’s exemplary coursework and accomplishments in the arena of physics until Peter could tell Aunt May was one chirpy buzzword away from shaking the guy by his broad shoulders, demanding why she had to leave her shift early to hear about _what she already knew_.

 

Finally, he paused, took a sip from the Perrier that had simply appeared in his hand. Cleared his throat.

 

“Anyways.”

 

Peter took the opportunity to deflate a little, breath hissing out, absolute mortification flushing higher and hotter on his cheeks with every minute that passed. The anticipation, the way he was being scrutinized, felt wonderful and awful at the same time and he hated it.

 

“Mrs. Parker, I called this meeting because I’m so excited to talk to you about the opportunity we’ve discovered for your son.”

“Nephew, actually,” Aunt May said quickly. “And what--opportunity?”

“Oh, nephew. I’m so sorry. Well--- here, Kathleen, it’s probably better if you explain.”

 

The woman turned to Peter, and now he could tell she was a doctor. Something about the eerie steadiness of her eyes.  

 

“I’m going to cut right to the point. Peter is an exceptional omega. The first we’ve encountered in this district like him under the age of forty.”

 

_Omega._

Peter had to stop himself from curling up on the seat, tucking his hands beneath his butt instead, making the tiny ottoman space feel even smaller. Shame shame shame. The blush was rising again like when Principal Meyer was complimenting him, but worse. He was instantly rocked by memories of the fiasco that was his first presentation, only two months prior. The seat of his jeans started to feel wet, even though he knew they really weren’t, phantom slick seeping out of him like a nightmare, deja-vu style. He tried not to wriggle.

“His tests results indicate that not only are his hormones incredibly potent—I’m talking in the fifth percentile, here—he’s also uniquely compatible for multiple mates. He might _require_ more than one mate, even.”

 

Suddenly, Dr. Kaspbrak looked like she was about to reach over and take Aunt May’s hand with her own, eyes somber, bedside manner full blast. “The risk his condition poses is massive. We’re not sure Midtown High is a safe space for Peter to be, anymore, Mrs. Parker. Or any school in New York, for that matter.”

 

Peter imagined himself getting fucked in the crummy gym locker room, too many knots and not enough holes to hold them, dozens of detached hands and hips and cocks hungrily prodding. The type of stuff sex ed books warned about. _Oh._

 

“But!” Meyer cut in, “We’ve been made aware that there’s a place where someone like Peter is sorely needed.”

 

“Where?” Peter asked, quiet.

 

“What’re you saying?” Aunt May was clutching the tote in her lap, hard, and Peter could tell it was the only thing keeping her tethered to her chair.

 

“A governmental group is looking an omega like Peter. I can’t give much more detailed description than that.” Dr. Kaspbrak took a hefty packet of paperwork out of her satchel and passed it to Aunt May, who took it with the jerky, distracted movement of a sleepwalker. “Our contact has assured us that there would be handsome financial compensation involved for his family, as well. And he’d be allowed to continue his education, of course.”

“I have some private tutors I could contact right away,” Meyer added. “Peter’s so bright. I know we would all hate to see that go to waste.”

Peter felt a weird sort there and not there-ness as the adults went back and forth; a cut of meat to be haggled over, a sack of hormones with a hole to fuck. It felt weird, but also, to hear an alpha call him valuable—

Meyer looked directly at him. Peter nearly choked.

“You could do so much good, Peter. Think about it,” he murmured, suddenly soft. _You were made for this,_ said his easy smile _._ Confidence, reassurance, said his big hands.

 

“No,” said Aunt May, and Peter let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, jerking his gaze away to the concrete flooring. Spell broken. He struggled for a second before he identified the feeling in his chest as relief. Her voice was steady and firm, trembling only a little around the edges with anger. Peter knew the tone. “No,” she said again, “I’m not taking Peter out of school.”

 

“He’d be taken out of school, yes, but that doesn’t mean—“

 

“And I’m not whoring him out to ‘government officials’ for some top-secret sex mumbo-jumbo.”

Peter bit his lip, at least eighty percent sure he was going to explode of embarrassment.

 

Meyer steepled his hands between his knees.

“Mrs. Parker, your son—“

“ _Nephew_.”

“—your nephew would be perfectly suited to this position. He’d more than excel at it, in fact. I think I speak for both Kathleen and I when I say I recommend that Peter seriously consider this option.”

 

“And I know I speak for both of _us_ when I say we’re not interested.” Aunt May thrust the papers back towards Dr. Kaspbrak, who took them with a nod, as if she completely anticipated this. “Honestly? I actually have half a mind to take Peter out of Midtown altogether.”

 

Meyer paused, looking at Peter, then leaned back into the big armchair with a sigh. He seemed as disappointed now as he was enthusiastic earlier. “Well, then. Let me see you two to the door.”

 

He stood and showed them out, his hand hovering close enough to the small of Peter’s back that he could feel the heat of it through the cotton of his shirt. Just before Peter slipped through the door after his aunt, Meyer stopped him; it only took the barest, barest touch right there, gentle, guiding. His eyes were gentle and his voice low again, just enough to suggest the subtle play of alpha subvocals that lay barely below a noticeable register.

 

“This is your decision, Peter. If you change your mind, please don’t hesitate to contact us. As long as you remain unbonded, the offer still stands.” The shadow he cast on Peter was heavy. “They need you.”

 

“Thank you, Principal Meyer,” he said with a weak smile. “I’ll, uh, think about it?”

 

“Good,” Meyer said, and then the door was closed and Peter was left standing alone in that same crusty old waiting room again, the lights buzzing overhead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for hella dubcon and light gore mentions in this chapter, as well as wade/peter content! 
> 
> slaving away out here to get these chapters out for you guys ;)

“—and when you get to the bottom of it, you know what? They’re being sexist towards you. Sexist! _In 2016_! I thought they stopped doing this in the nineties. All this ‘special education planning’ for omegas shit.”

Aunt May hadn’t stopped talking since she and Peter had filed onto the subway home together, meeting missed and shift ended, crabby enough for the both of them. Peter hated it when she got like this. He wished they had a car; he felt like the conversation would be better had with the diffusion of the side by side driver-passenger arrangement, her eyes on the road, or better yet, through the cool reflection of a rearview mirror. She had called Principal Meyer a knothead so loudly on the Green Line that all the slump-shouldered commuters were looking at them from over their iPhones, earbuds popped out, curious. He wanted to hide.

 

Now she was hovering over steaming pots in the kitchen and things weren’t much better, lots of wooden spoon waving and emphatic cries of _it’s the principle of it,_ accompanied by claw hands _._ Peter just tried to delve deeper into the problem set on the kitchen table in front of him, occupy his mind with theoretical equations, the trajectory of baseballs and soccer balls, smooth graphite arcs on white paper. Rotational Kinematics. Anything, other than listen to his aunt go on and on about biases, and how the whole idea of sending Peter away made her want to tear all her hair out. Because, deep down in the back pocket of his heart, Peter didn’t think it was _that_ bad.

_You'd do so much good. You could help._

He’d never felt anything like that before in his life—somebody _needing_ him.

 

And his aunt was an alpha. She wouldn’t understand, on a different kind of blood-braided, DNA-deep level. Peter had always huddled in her shadow, even before he knew which side of the spectrum he fell on, her scent all over the apartment a comfort. Even with her back against the wall, she’d go to bat for Peter every time, all alpha fangs, and he loved her, but.

She didn’t get what being needed like that meant to him.

 

“—white sauce or red sauce?”

“Huh?” Peter looked up, his stomach squeezing uncomfortably in surprise; guilt.

“You want white sauce or red sauce?” Aunt May was looking at him over the kitchen island, and for a second, Peter thought she was asking something else entirely, as if she could see all his terrible thoughts. X-ray vision beams right through his heart, like always.

“Uh. Red.” Peter said.

He probably looked spooked as hell; her eyes crumpled, and she sighed, fanning the dry spaghetti out in the pot to boil.

“Sorry. Okay. Rant over, bud. Get the veggies ready, would you?”

Peter nodded, hopping up, trying not to seem too grateful to go about his work.

 

They ate dinner, then watched trash TV, then went to sleep, where he lay in his narrow bed and dreamed up unknowable, erotic fables of being taken somewhere and put to use.

 

 

 

 

Through the next few weeks, he got over it. Really, he did; he didn’t think about the uneasy-cozy feeling in his stomach that Principal Meyer put there. Didn’t think about the fifth percentile, and words like ‘major risk’ in conjunction with the pubescent sheep wandering down the hallways at Midtown. Didn’t think about how much they needed that compensation—how the shower stall in their apartment was so skinny that his elbows bumped into the tiled walls when he raised them just inches from his sides to slip a soapy hand under his armpit. He didn’t even tell Ned, just hung with him as usual, griping about Mr. Lee’s syllabus and Decathlon and hiding out in the computer lab to tool around with Python-coded programs they were making up on a whim.

Ned was really good, and more than once, watching from an over-the-shoulder vantage point as his friend rattled away on the keyboard, Peter thought about ways of casually bringing it up: _you ever thought about a future in this coding stuff?_ quickly followed by a coy _oh, what about me?_ _Well,_ _you know our principle, Mr. Meyer? He wants me to quit school and become the omega bitch for a bunch of, uh, government officials, I think. Congressmen. I’m not super sure._ _I’m thinking of a career in whatever that is._

But he never took the plunge.

He took a history test, instead, then one for pre-Calc. MJ started up a Snap streak with him and they kept it going for a solid two weeks, even if she never sent him more than blurry pictures of random shit with even more random captions; chairs, sneakers, the backs of classmates heads with _look @ becky’s hair lmfaoooo_ overtop.

Outside of Midtown, a new villain arose from the Bronx, which seemed to be New York’s fresh, city-sized meme of the fall. A reminder of _oh yeah, superheroes_ , which lay as an undercurrent most of the time but occasionally reared its head every few months. Some kind of mad scientist situation, armed with potent grief and a gravity-bender of the homemade variety—news anchors speculated she made it in the basement of her two story brownstone with siphoned industrial materials from her husband’s night-shift job.

Her nickname was _Terraforma_ , which Peter thought was pretty trite.

In a surprising twist, it was a vigilante that laced on their converse and scrapped up to meet her. Someone non-Avengers affiliated, at least as far as anyone knew. Peter watched shitty iPhone footage of their battle on Ned’s laptop one morning before second period started: pieces of metal fire escape whizzing down Allerton Avenue, cars crumpling like tin cans, feats that you’d call CGI-bullshit on if it hadn’t already been proven on your own backyard, your block or borough (Peter still dreams of the Stark Expo, the giant standing beside him with rockets in his hands, _real_ ). The footage bobbed in excitement as a skinny figure in a red jumpsuit—long johns?—flung their way around the debris, gleeful as they dodged and wove. _Super agility?_ Ned speculated. A bone-grating screech clipped right through the camera’s flimsy mike, shattering the windows in the bodega across the street. _Oh, shit!_ _Sound manipulation!_ The hero couldn’t have been older than Peter underneath the balaclava, all willow-limbs and skinny joints. Something about that made Peter’s entire body itch. A kind of yearning he couldn’t name or place, but that weighed heavy.

He dutifully followed their skirmishes on social media for the rest of the week and didn’t think about-- wanting to be that.

Because that was ridiculous.

 

It was rolling up on four weeks since the meeting, and Peter had been starting to feel the signs creep inside him over the past few days. The cramps, the sweating. The sudden bouts of irritation that left him snapping at MJ when she put her feet on his desk, then scrambling to apologize. His body was telling him to get ready.

 

Peter woke up on the morning of his second ever heat with a raging headache.

 

 _TAKE YOUR MEDS_ read a pink sticky note on the fridge, guardian of the prerequisite milk for his daily bowl of cereal, unavoidable. Peter’s stomach twisted a little as he yanked the door open and found the carton; even Aunt May was nervous. But he’d taken his meds. And applied the special deodorant. And he even had a pad on, one made especially for omegas, just in case he, you know—leaked.

He ate his cereal, tossed the bowl in the sink, and booked it. He could do this. He _would_ do this.

He was feeling fine on the train ride to school; no weird looks or suspicious sniffs, just normal commuters shuffling around and hanging groggily from the hand loops. In fact, he thought as he raced up the concrete steps of Midtown and into the waiting arms of first period American History class, he was feeling _good._

More vibrant than normal, extra alive. Pink-flush.

But two periods and one Spanish pop-quiz later, he was beginning to wilt. When he brought literally none of the books he needed to fourth period, bag full of junk, he decided things were decidedly starting to swerve towards funky, reminding him scarily of the first time around. He bristled. The headache had tripled in intensity. He was starting to sweat _all over_ , weird smelly perspiration that had him trying to duck his nose into his collar as subtly as possible to confirm that it was really him. It made him incredibly paranoid; all he could think about was his scent and how to calculate the number of recently-popped alphas there were around him at any given time. Wondering dizzily if they could smell this sickness on him.

A teacher called on him at some point before lunch and he realized, with the kind of sharp terror that only high schoolers understand, that he didn’t know the answer nor the question that was asked.

Essentially, it was _shit_.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

MJ was staring at him over their lukewarm plates of cafeteria mashed potatoes, the _plat du jour_. The sounds of lunchtime crashed back in like whitewater.

 

“What?” Peter asked dumbly. MJ and Ned were looking across the table at him like he’d grown another head, and he caught himself thinking that she looked cuter than normal, hair in a bun, two-cent plastic choker around her neck. She hadn’t presented yet; _maybe she could be an alpha_ , thought Peter’s hindbrain, to which Peter’s forebrain said: shut the fuck up.

 

“Earth to Parker. You good?” Her gaze, normally all back-of-class-drowsy, half-lidded, amused at life, was penetrating. It jarred Peter.  

 

“Oh, yeah, I’m, uh—Yeah,” he tried.

 

There was a beat, just a moment to sit on that lie, before Ned burst.

 

“Alright, that’s it!” he said, slamming his hands flat on the table and pushing back his chair with an ear-grating scrape. “You’re in heat again. We’re not dumb, man. ”  

Peter flinched, painfully aware of all the heads that just swung to look at them, typical teenage self-consciousness doubled down with actual fear. Anticipation.

 

“Oh my god,” MJ groaned, sagging back in her chair. “Should’ve known. Fuckin’ idiot.”

 

“You need to get your ass to the nurse’s office stat,” Ned said, coming around to Peter’s side of the table, intent clear. Peter scrambled to his feet.

 

“I’m good, man, I can take myself!” Peter said. He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder with a painful heave. This was like the subway trip all over again, just a million times worse. Everyone watching to see what the little _omega_ was doing, all the petty cliques unified in their ogling, even just for a moment. He thought he caught some of the rougher looking guys at the back table staring over this way, too. Wade Wilon’s crowd. Yikes.

“I’m good. Promise,” he said. He was gonna get himself outta here, stat.

 

“Peter, man—“ Ned’s hand grazed Peter’s arm, just for a half-second. “It was real bad last time.”

“Yeah, I remember, I was there,” Peter snapped, then stopped. His shoulders dropped. “Sorry, Ned, m’ good.” He tried again: “I’m gonna take an extra dose of my meds then go home. Sorry for making you guys worry.” Not that he had the meds. But he’d make do. He made a mental note to text their group chat to let them know when he got home.

 

“You’re _sure_ sure,” said Ned.

 

“Absolutely.”

 

His friend twisted his mouth, then nodded. “Get out of here.”

 

Peter turned on his heel, managing only to wobble a little bit, just catching MJ’s hiss of _dumbass_ behind his back. He deserved it. He left the cafeteria as quickly and quietly as possible, head down.

 

 

 

The hallway from the cafeteria towards the nurse’s office stretched for millions upon millions of miles. Was this normal? Was it always this long? Peter felt pressure against his shoulder; he realized, with a grimace, that he was listing into the bank of orange lockers lined up against the wall. He rested his temple against the cool metal, just for a second, then continued bravely on.

 

The nurse took one look at Peter and hustled him onto the emergency cot in the back.

 

“Were you the one who came in a few months ago? Paul Parker?” she asked, stowing his bag somewhere out of sight and turning to rustle through a few drawers.

“Peter. Peter P-parker,” he said, scooted back against the starchy pillow, tucking his knees in close to his chest, shoes still on. She came back with a thermometer. He dutifully accepted the thin metal rod underneath his scorching tongue, mouth rasping against the plastic safety covering. The nurse’s eyes were soft and he remembered her, too. Omega. She was nice to him, last time. Helped him take all the tests he needed to and get home safe.

 

“Oh, hon,” she said. “Your heats really do a doozy on you, don’t they? You should take a few days off for the next one. Get a doctor’s note.”

 

“ _Mphh_ ,” said Peter. The thermometer beeped, and the nurse removed it, glanced at the readout.

 

“Yup. 101.2. Average temp for an omega with an unbroken heat-fever.”

 

Peter groaned, feeling the pad in his briefs squelch as he shifted. _There wasn’t even an alpha around! No dicks to lube up for! What’re you doing, body?_

 

The nurse ran blood pressure and heart rate tests (all elevated, more signs of heat, of course). As she was typing something up on the desktop computer, inputting his results, maybe, there was a buzzing, and she pulled a small pager from her pocket. Peter realized that his vision was starting to swim a little.

“I have to duck out for a moment, but I’ll be right back,” she said, pocketing the phone and rummaging through another drawer, producing a small, strange object. It was about the width of Peter’s thumb and twice as long, bright purple, cylindrical but rounded. She held it out to him in one gloved hand.

 

“Take it,” she said.

 

“What is it?”

 

“We give these to omegas to temporarily help ease the difficulty of their heat. It’s common practice, don’t worry. Have you ever stimulated yourself rectally?”

 

“Uh—“ _maybe blind fumblings late at night once or twice while he jerked his cock, super secret, shameful._ “—n-not really?”

 

“Well, it’s there if you want to use it. I’ll be right back.” The nurse pulled the beige privacy curtains around the cot with two quick yanks, metal rings clattering on their runners. Peter was still staring like a slack-jawed idiot at the sex toy the nurse had placed next to him on the bedding, kind of in awe that this was happening.

The receding sound of footsteps. A door creaking open then clicking closed.

All at once, he was alone with nothing but the rabbit-quickness of his racing heart.

His heat was throbbing in him in earnest, now, and his chest shuddered with something like a sob. He was so horny it hurt.

 _Nothing more to lose, then._ No further left to plummet.

Why not?

Thoughts full of medical diagrams from their Sex Ed textbook, he pushed his jeans down around his thighs, then his underwear, heavy with the sopping pad, not caring that he was gonna get slick all over the papery sheets. He tucked his knees up tighter to his chest, shivering as the tepid air in the room rushed in like a cool lick right up his ass crack, then gingerly took the dildo in one hand.

He closed his eyes then pressed the tip against himself. It was skinny, but thicker than the curious finger or two he’d had down there before. It went in like a dream. He was _so wet_. As it breached deeper, Peter realized he understood why the nurse offered something like this as relief; suddenly, it wasn’t about the headache, or the fever, or the dizziness, or any of the god damn dumb shit he’d had to deal with today, but simply the slick slide of the toy in and out of him. The absolute focus of all of his attention. His thumb and index finger brushed against his swollen, sopping asshole as he pushed the toy in deep as it could go, marveling that his cock was already red and full against his belly. He didn’t need to touch it, or want to. Just fuck himself, faster and faster and faster. This was already millions of miles better than any jack off session he’d ever had, explorative, good but not quite good enough— he moaned---

Two knocks on the door. The sound was loud as a gunshot in the quiet room, easily audible over Peter’s labored breathing. He froze, somehow stopping his hand from completing its inward push, asshole clenching around the tip of the toy. Fuck.

 

Slowly, tentatively, the door creaked open. Footsteps again, but heavier, this time. A different gait.

 

“Hello?” asked a voice. Masculine. One that Peter thought he recognized, though he didn’t dare to make a sound. The room must absolutely stink with the smell of an omega in heat, all sickly ripe fruit, choking, too much, undeniable evidence of debauchery. A single pearl of slick rolled down his ass and pattered to the bed below as he stayed stock still in horror, the stain of a shadow slowly leeching through the privacy curtain.

 

“Peter?” the voice asked, quietly, close enough to reach out and touch, now, and Peter let out a tiny, involuntary squeak; he knew exactly who it was.

 

He recoiled at the precise moment the curtain was ripped aside:

Wade Wilson. All six foot three of him. Nose crooked from being broken somewhere down the line in his long, illustrious career as a jerk.

 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Wade breathed, surveying him, twinned to Peter’s thoughts at that exact second. Uncanny.

“W-what’re you doing here?” Peter said, sloppily trying to pull his jeans back up as fast as possible and failing miserably. He needed to get out of here, like, yesterday. Wade’s big hand was on his wrist, the other one yanking his pants back down to where they were around his knees, then further to his ankles.

“You smelled so fucking good, Parker, walking around all day like this. Not that hard to figure out.”

Peter realized there was a sizable tent in Wade’s black basketball shorts. Of course; Blunt. To the point.

The thing was: Wade was mean and _smart_. Peter remembers how crestfallen he’d been after being so jazzed to go to Midtown freshman year, wide-eyed and grinning, only to discover that his middle school marauder was sitting pretty two grades above. A chemistry whiz, alpha all the way, rumors of who he was currently dicking down changing flavor week by week. Serial seducer, but never knotting. Peter, flying way low beneath the social radar, always assumed the stories were inflated by the resident covens of thirsty omegas, but someone told him that he likes popping cherries most of all; he found himself hoping, for his sake, that they were wrong. Or maybe that they were right.

 

He tried to shake Wade’s grip, but he didn’t let go. Suddenly the dildo was in Wade’s hand, and he stared at it, leaning in to smell it. Really _sniff_ at it. Why was that so fucking hot to watch? He felt like this little baby bird he rescued as a kid, stunned from slamming into the apartment window on a sunny day, tumbling into the flower pots. Limp and tiny and trapped in a cardboard box lined with paper towels.

 

“You’ve always been so annoying,” Wade groaned, eyes glittering. “Laced up so goddamn tight all the time. Didn’t think you’d be such a _slut_ , fuck.”

He touched his tongue to the wet tip of the toy, inquisitive, and Peter, still hard, blurted out more precome onto the cotton hem of his t-shirt.

“Look at you.” And Wade _was_ looking at him, like he was the most fascinating, disgusting thing this side of the river. Like he was something abhorrent that had never been seen before, and he couldn’t turn his gaze.

And then Peter felt, in a deeper way than simply knowing, that maybe if it was Wade—okay. Okay. Maybe this was inevitable. Peter felt all the air go out of him, like a contented deflation, but on a spiritual level. He rolled onto his belly, because something in his gut was telling him to do it. And Wade just _knew_ , too. Whatever bio-fuckery was going down, he was vibing on the same wavelength of it. He quickly clambered up onto the cot, which rattled unsteadily under their combined weight, hardly made big enough for one boy, let alone two. Peter’s heart leapt to his throat. He heard the snap of an elastic waistband being pulled over hips and then there was a strong, musky smell that he quickly identified as the stink of aroused alpha dick. Another wave of slick welled up inside his hole, eager for more than the flimsy toy and trying to show it on some kind of twisted biological level.

Peter felt Wade pull aside one cheek, heard him cuss. One blunt nudge in warning, which made Peter keen, and he was mounted with brutal, reverent force.

He was full to bursting.

Wade fucked him hard, full of weird teenage boy dirty talk, _gonna put so many babies in you_ , _Peter, holy shit_ —and he was suddenly Peter, now, not just _Parker_ , but he was too busy being plowed into the cot to think about that; if fingers and toys were a sweet treat, alpha cock was the whole fucking drippy-ass glorious sundae, cherry on top, please and thank you. There was no grace to their fucking, but Peter realized he was coming half a dozen thrusts deep, spurting onto the cot and slicking it down with his thin come. He couldn’t think straight, body greedy for it, sound gushing out of him like a tapped keg, nurse’s office starchiness forgotten. It felt _so good_. Suddenly every annoying knot-obsessed omega at his high school, every too-short skirt and pair of tight leggings, made perfect sense; they were made for this.

The cot was squealing and Peter was drowning beneath the huge weight of Wade against his back, above him, around him.

“m’ gonna knot you,” he grunted, and before Peter could make sense of this there were teeth biting down at the nape of his neck, trying to claim. A hot spasm ripped through him, all pain and sourness, and in a moment clarity he thought—shouldn’t it be pleasure--

 

The door swung open so hard that the frame banged against the wall and the blinds hanging in the window rattled like dry grass. Peter literally shrieked.

It was Principal Meyer, followed quickly by the nurse, and then somebody else but Peter couldn’t see because Wade was mashing him into the pillow, still biting down, hard.

“Get off of him. Right now, Wilson,” said Principal Meyer’s voice, strained and strange.

Somewhere in Peter’s mind, maybe the place where his forebrain had receded to, he decided that he was having an out of body experience. The pain of the bite was excruciating, not the _goodrightyes_ that should be flowing through him right now, and he felt about thirty places at once. Thinking was like walking backwards through molasses.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted Wade to keep going or for him to stop.

Wade didn’t stop.

He didn’t let go of Peter until the other figure—one of the beefy School Resource Officers that sometimes stood sentry near Midtown’s entrance—pulled him away with Principal Meyer’s help, slipping out of Peter with a squelch, knot a half-inflated, red-angry bump. Close but no cigar.

Wade roared and struggled, Peter whined ineffectually; his alpha. They were taking his alpha away. He struggled to rise up onto his forearms but stopped as his half-eaten lunch began to rise with a lurch, the room suddenly spinning a mile a minute. The back of his neck felt like there were nails being driven into it, and the vague idea occurred to him that something was seriously wrong.

“Peter, stay with me,” the nurse said, suddenly at his bedside, unlacing his shoes and pulling off the pants half-hanging from his ankles, the ruined underwear. In any other situation he’d lose his mind of embarrassment; at the moment, he didn’t really care.  

“Why won’t it fuckin’ take??” Wade screamed as they bodily dragged him towards the door, blood on his mouth and crazy in his eyes, cock still out and slick with Peter’s fluids, until the SRO gruffly commanded him to pull his pants up.

“Give him back, you _fucking_ —“

Then the door slammed and everything got muffled. Or maybe that was just in Peter’s head; he didn’t know, because he wasn’t really tracking anything that well at the moment. Everything was sort of breaking down into frames: the image of Principal Meyer leaned with his back against the door, breathing hard. The nurse helping Peter to sit up, then tilting his head gently forwards to treat the wound on his neck, which he could still feel bleeding hot and runny down his spine. The loopy surprise at realizing his cock was still hard when he looked down, standing hard between his pale, bare thighs.

 

Little snippets of sound: “It’s gonna be okay, hon,” and “Taking you where you need to be.”

 

Peter missed Wade, or at least his dick, with a bone-deep ache. He couldn’t decide. He felt like something in his chest was being torn right up the middle, picked apart seam by ripped seam, one thread at a time.

 

Suddenly, a lot was happening all at once: someone had found him a pair of girl’s athletic shorts so he wasn’t naked from the waist down like a little kid, and he was being wrapped in a thick emergency blanket, and then he was being scooped up by two arms right quick. The nausea washed over him again, everything whizzing past all streaky. He threw up a little, lips numb, and then apologized for doing so. At least, he tried to. They were moving so quick down a narrow back hallway that he didn’t really recognize, the loud click of the nurse’s shoes somewhere next to him, and he realized he was in the arms of the SRO, whose chest smelled blessedly neutral and beta. The blanket felt like it weighed a million pounds and it was trapping all his wet, feverish heat inside and multiplying it by a billion, like—like a watermelon in a microwave, he decided. He saw a Youtube video about that.

 

All at once the grey sky above New York was blasting his eyes without due warning and making his sinuses throb like the worst hangover headache he’d never had the opportunity to experience. He was in a car, along with other things that didn’t make sense, like the fact that Aunt May was in the car with him. No, wait. Her voice. A phone. The nurse had Aunt May on the phone and Peter’s head in her lap.

“Hello?! Peter?” she asked, sounding tinny and distant, like she was standing on the other side of the Hudson and trying to shout across.

“I’m okay,” Peter thought he said. _I’m okay, Aunt May._ He wasn’t, but he knew that it was important he tell her that. The tearing feeling was getting stronger. This was really bad. The strong flight instinct was taking over; he always seemed to need to get out of wherever he was at.

 

Peter wriggled upright to try and paw sweatily at the door handle but they were already stopping. The door popped open, nearly spilling him out in the process.

“Peter—“ said the nurse, but no hands shot forwards to actively try and to stop him. The light was white among the skyscrapers, grey and blue, new and tall. There were an awful lot of people in dark suits here, for some reason, he thought. The blanket was gone, and for a second, he could finally _breathe_ as the dizziness ebbed a little.

“You okay, kid?” someone asked.

 

“I’m—fine,” he muttered, taking two stumbling steps in one direction or another. Then he stopped.

 

Blinked.

 

Standing right there on the pavement, resplendent as a waking dream, was Tony Stark. Tony motherfucking _Stark_. A face that every lucid American knew on knee-jerk gut instinct, worshipped or hated or some combination of both. A face that Peter had indelibly memorized since he was small.

And he smelled like _heaven_.

This had to be a joke, Peter decided. A cartoon; a final farce.

He swooned.

Strong arms caught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are love/life/fuel! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is preeeeetty much 100% peter getting dicked down. you've been warned lol 
> 
> brought to you by Drake tracks on repeat
> 
> sorry for any silly errors in this unbeta'd mess <3

Peter woke up. It was the terrible kind of waking up that was like getting the wind knocked out of you, but in reverse: all the breath rushed into him at once, vengeful, and he choked a little on his own spit. His bones ached and the back of his neck felt shredded, not one inch healed. Waking up was wasn’t _rising_ in any sense of the word, but falling into the nightmare all over again, wading groggily through the unbroken heat. He never wanted to move again.

 

“Hey.”

 

Peter sat up stock-straight, electrocuted, then had to close his eyes for a second to let the sea-sickness pass.

 

When he opened them again, the first thing he noticed was that he was on a bed, and the second thing he noticed was that Tony Stark was still, inexplicably, a real living being who was standing beside the bed, _watching_ him. He existed—which Peter knew, already, but not like this. Not without the mediation of post-produced camera footage between them. A news ticker and an anchor to carefully explain why the world was ending, this time. He saw that Tony had wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, some graying hair in the beard on his chin, tendons standing up on the backs of his hands. Fingernails, bitten down to the quick like a teenage girl. He was a real person, arc reactor gently glowing through his shirt, and there was no explaining this.

 

Or the fact that he smelled fucking _amazing_.

 

Peter was starting to feel dizzy again. He slowly started to lower himself back down onto his elbows, mired deep in a snow bank of too-soft pillows.

 

“Woah there,” Tony said, still somehow _speaking to Peter_ , starting to take a lap around to the other side of the bed. “Easy. You just got back. Don’t leave just yet.” He was casually dressed a pair of designer sweatpants and plain white tee that probably cost more than Aunt May earned in a fortnight. Not that Peter had the eye to spitball a guess.

 

Tony, still pacing, started tugging t-shirt off over his head by the neck, hasty. He had a pale stomach, tan shoulders, and a wide chest. He dropped the shirt to the floor, and Peter was surprised when it didn’t thud like a ton of bricks.

 

“I’m— what’s happening?” Peter asked. His heartbeat was increasing; a question he didn’t know the answer to, a test he hadn’t studied for. No high school boy-body glimpsed in the locker room showers could hold a candle to _this_.

 

Tony was cut.

 

Of course he was, arc reactor studded between his pecs like some space-age treasure, toned with the kind of packed on muscle that was hewn out of all work, no play. Beat up around the edges, every victory or tragedy needing to leave a little reminder of itself on his body in a kiss of keloid scar, just in case, all the legends proven in flesh. But even if he wasn’t built like an omega’s wet dream (and Peter was definitely familiar with those), Peter thought—he _knew_ —no other sight could have aroused him more. Even just the way Tony moved, every tiny infliction written out in his posture, his stance, his strange embodied dialect of New Yorker brusqueness, said alpha among alphas. Peter feebly tried to gather the sheets at his waist into a wad of high thread-count cotton to hide his hard-on, and looked away, squinted towards the massive wraparound window. The sight of the New York City skyline suddenly gave him vertigo. Totally disorienting, like he’d leapt up eighty stories in one single bound. His neck was uncomfortably stiff, and when he reached up to paw at it, he found the wide cuff of a bandage: someone had applied a dressing to the bonding bite wound.

 

Wade. A place beneath Peter’s heart twinged to think of him, but it was only an echo.

 

“You’re in Stark Tower,” Tony said. “Things were pretty scary for a little bit, but it’s gonna be okay. Just—do exactly what I say, alright?” Peter hazarded (stole) a look back and the sweatpants were coming off, now, sliding down and down the curved swell of Tony’s ass and thighs, showing off black Calvins beneath. His body had dark, coarse hair on it. Peter was still working hard to grow enough for his first shave, unused razor saved in the bottom bathroom drawer, hopeful, virginal. _Fuck_.

 

“Gimmie some verbal confirmation here, Peter.”

 

He realized he was staring.

 

“Y-yes, Mr. Stark.”

 

The underwear were coming off, now, and getting flung god-knows-where on the carpet of the expansive bedroom.

 

“This isn’t how any of us wanted this to go,” Tony said easily, completely unfazed by his own nakedness. “But our only choice right now is for me to fuck you. You’re probably going to die if I don’t. Bleeding out from that half-baked claiming bite is gonna suck ass, trust me.”

 

Not even godly force could’ve stopped Peter’s gaze from honing in on Tony’s crotch as he took himself in hand. Thick and red and swelling full as he gave it a few brisk strokes, rounding on Peter. Ready to—oh, god. The dreamlike quality of it all was starting to make everything gauzy again, but Peter found he was completely content with not waking up. He just wanted to hear Tony Stark say _ass_ one more time. No, he wanted him to _fuck_ his ass. His hindbrain was screaming for a knot and nothing else was making sense. His hand was snaking down to rub himself through his stupid little stolen athletic shorts as if it belonged to someone else.

 

“Let’s make this fast, okay? Teamwork?” Tony asked, like they were just collaborating together on a school project, playing soccer together, something equally asinine, and in the space of a second he’d become so close. One knee dented the edge of the memory foam mattress with his weight, perfuming the air with his scent, crawling towards Peter inch by inch. The air was so thick with alpha hormones that Peter thought he might choke, or maybe survive imbibing nothing but the sweet cloy of it forever. His skin was too tight over him, shrink-wrapped to his muscles. He knew that if he moved, he would reveal a wet spot the size of Texas beneath his ass, one hundred percent bonafide slick, so he stayed put.

 

Tony reached out to touch his cheek in a surprising moment of sweetness, kneeling before him, now, and Peter flinched a little without meaning too; still battered. Still bruised, confused. Small and scared and in the den of one of the most powerful men in the world who had no reason to be touching Peter like this, at all. For a second the panic eclipsed everything in a white-hot blur, and Peter shook until he found Tony’s hand gently cupping his jaw, the side of his neck.

 

“You’re okay,” Tony said, so softly, so tenderly, not breaking eye contact for a single instant and-- why did he have such ridiculously thick lower eyelashes? Peter noticed that they were close enough to kiss. He found that he _wanted_ them to kiss. He glanced down as subtly as possible to see where Tony’s cock hung huge and heavy between his legs, and his mouth dropped slack-open, saliva welling up.

 

The thirst clocked the fear in a heartbeat, K-O. Down and out and so, _totally_ fucked.

 

“You’re Tony Stark,” Peter blurted, an idiot, trying to figure out what part of Tony’s face he could reach fastest if he leaned in to lick it.

 

“ _Very_ good, Pete.” Tony said. “Now please take off your clothes.”

 

Peter’s tongue was swelling up in his mouth. He wanted to laugh; the barking, hysterical kind. He wanted to get so fucking pregnant on that dick he’d be carrying triplets weeks past due—and he had to focus on the task at hand or else he’d get permanently stuck on that thought forever.

 

Tony’s hand came to rest on Peter’s thigh while he struggled out of his shirt, and it shouldn’t be possible for simple skin-to-skin contact to be healing in an actual medical sense, but he could feel his throbbing headache starting to evaporate. Tony was gentling him, petting him like a spooked animal, maybe out of alpha instinct, or just plain intuition. His touch was warm and gently calloused; the hand of a mechanic. Peter had forgotten about that part, the past and present of Tony that wasn’t Iron Man, which he might of read about on Wikipedia, or just picked up by general cultural teen osmosis. The money and the war-dead and graduating from MIT only a few years older than Peter was now.

 

There was no Wikipedia page on Peter Parker; he feverishly wondered what Tony knew about _him_. If there was anything to know that mattered in any noteworthy way at all.

 

“Sorry,” he said quietly once he had wriggled out of his shorts, making everything smell like ripe omega again, mortifying. The sheets were gone, too and their scents were tangling and interplaying with each other in a way that smelled like a hundred generations of alphas knotting omegas, an ancient kind of anticipation. This was rich foreplay, a deeply primal thing, and suddenly this wasn’t the penthouse of one of the most luxuriously modern buildings in New York, but a simple cottage. A cave. A dark, private corner of the world where omegas get bred full.

 

Tony took the soggy, dark fabric from Peter’s trembling hands and tossed the shorts over the edge of the bed.

 

“No, don’t apologize,” Tony said. “This is good.” He came closer. “Ready to take my knot, Peter?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Peter agreed, moaning, drunk on hormones and scent. Listening Tony was the only thing that mattered, ever, he decided. It was weird that he’d ever wanted to do anything else. He watched, mesmerized, as Tony’s tongue peeked just barely out between his lips to wet them, as if in contemplation.

 

Without warning, Tony raised his eyebrows. “What am I saying? You were born for it.”

 

Then Peter was being flipped onto his belly by two strong hands, and that was all that needed to be said on the subject. He spread his legs on instinct, as far as they could go until they encountered the bracket of Tony’s knees, and he thought distantly about the mess his ass must be making right now. He reached out blindly: found a pillow. Tucked it to his chest and held on for dear life.

 

This wasn’t going to be Wade, and he _needed_ it.

 

Tony, for all his talk about hurrying, dawdled with fully loading his dick inside. Indulgent. He smeared the head across the puffy little hole, deflowered only hours before, then pushing in just a little. The leisurely pace of an alpha that got what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted it.

It seemed like fifteen year old Peter Parker was a choice acquisition.

He delved in and out shallowly a few more times before Peter felt slick drooling down his taint. He was pretty sure he was going to spontaneously combust. He’d ben string out for hours without a knot and the teasing was driving him insane.

“Fuck, sweetheart. You’re _soaked,”_ Tony breathed, resting just inside of Peter, taking a moment to admire his handiwork, the way craftsmen like to stand back and look proudly at a particularly hard finished project. Then Peter was rolling his hips back and up to take the rest of that fat cock, greedily gobbling up any time for contemplation, because otherwise he was going to die _._ It was just fact.

Tony rumbled and pulled Peter bodily the rest of the way down in agreement. They were flush, and Tony only gave him only the space of one breath before fucking out and in again, hard, ridges on his cock pulling at Peter’s rim. His hands wrapped so far around Peter’s hips it was obscene, thick fingers digging into pale sides, and Peter came. Right there on the spot like the kid he was, all trembling, whimpering, wetness splooged on sheets and belly and cock. He’d have been embarrassed if he’d had space to think around the toe-curling, white-out pleasure of it, but his brain had flipped to static.

“ _Fuck_ , kid, did you just—“

And then Tony was working for it in earnest, gasping dirty shit Peter was too blissed out to catch, fucking him to knot and cum, and it was perfect. An odd sort of smug satisfaction bled through Peter, trickling hot and unfamiliar, even as each brutal thrust punched a little gasp from the bottom of his belly; he knew, now, deep in his hindbrain, that he had Tony Stark by the balls in the most literal sense. That he would cross the world for Peter in an instant, or even kill for him.

And Peter smiled dreamily into the pillows, out of his mind with the pleasure of that thought. Everything was slick with sweat, smelling of the low, lingering scent of Tony’s cologne, Peter’s own deodorant, beneath the overpowering tang of alpha-and-omega. The reactor dug into the space between his shoulder blades as Tony crushed him to his chest like he couldn’t get enough leverage, wanting to fuck Peter into oblivion but being just barely unable to. Peter wanted more.

“Please,” he whispered.

_“Fuck!”_ Tony gasped, the voice of a man broken utterly open, and Peter was too young to recognize the sound but he could instinctually feel the cock in his ass start to catch. The knot!

Tony took Peter in a binding hold, hips stacked and pressing so hard into the mattress that Peter would be worried for the sake if his own cock if it didn’t feel so damn _good_. The thrusting slowed, becoming more and more labored as Peter felt the knot slowly swell to bursting. He imagined it: red and big as a tangerine, big as a fist, bigger---

He came again, and felt Tony do the same inside him, completely buried deep and caught at inside his entrance, panting at the nape of his neck. It took a moment for his vision to clear, relishing for a moment in the pleasure of one hundred and eighty pounds of alpha collapsed on top of him, squeezing the breath out of his lungs. He was limp as Tony rolled them onto their sides, completely boneless, and shivered as Tony tenderly peeled back the bandage. Start lapping at the crusty, sickly bite with wide, wet passes of his tongue. Healing him. Peter’s body knew this; he himself didn’t, yet. But he would soon.

 

They were just so close to each other. Suddenly, Peter burst into tears, completely overwhelmed by the simple idea.

 

“Here, here, _shh_ …” Tony murmured, timbre of his voice vibrating through Peter’s body, chest to back, gathering even closer, and then teeth were biting cleanly into the meat of Peter’s shoulder.

Whatever thin membrane had existed between them popped like a soap bubble, and if Peter had been physically capable of reaching orgasm again, he would have. Tony kept his jaw locked there for a few more seconds, taking a deep breath in through his nose, before releasing, licking up the fresh blood from the new bite, making sure it healed permanent and strong.

Peter closed his eyes. _Bonded_. Everything felt warm and new, indescribably doubled. Two twinned souls. Two heartbeats, synched to the same rhythm.

Tony. Tony.

He couldn’t remember his own name, let alone Wade Wilson’s, the weak and stupid alpha who tried to take a piece of Peter in his mouth and couldn’t manage to swallow it.

 

Tony Stark had, inexplicably, eaten him whole.

 

 

 

Peter settled back into the warm chest behind him to wait for the knot to deflate, drifting, dreamy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are love! comments are life! you guys have been fueling me to write like a MADWOMAN i swear


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adding a little warning here for suicidal thoughts in this chap-- it's very fleeting/subtle but it's there!
> 
> sorry for lack of updates. i was actually shocked to find out that endgame is coming out so soon??? here's my first crack at tony POV which was stressful to try and get right woah i love him so much
> 
> based on my barely researched and badly remembered movie viewings. unbeta'd

For a dead man, Tony Stark moved awful quick.

 

The kid had passed out on his knot, fainted dead away from his bite—because two of his suits bodily holding him back could not have stopped him from biting—and was left laying limp when Tony had deflated enough to pull away. The kid had cried during--it. What they did. The drying tears made his sleep-slack cheeks look tacky and shiny, young in a terrible way.

 

Without thinking too hard about it, Tony threw on his rumpled shirt from the floor, his underwear, and slipped away.

 

“Boss,” Friday’s voice said from somewhere. “It’s dangerous to leave the boy alone.”

 

Tony grunted, thought: _Jarvis wouldn’t have said that, he’d just have locked me in the bedroom and kept me from leaving, no pussyfooting,_ and shouldered his way through a side corridor. Why did he build a tower with so many of these stupid hallways? Why did he _approve_ a tower with so many? It wasn’t smart design, his brain thought feverishly.

 

“Peter is especially susceptible to emotional and psychological damage after being knotted. If he wakes up and you’re gone, there is a high likelihood of trauma occurring.”

 

The sound of the kid’s name hurt, too direct, and he shuddered.

 

“Gimme a second, Friday. Just—a second. To go out.”

 

“I highly suggest returning.”

 

“I’m going to.”

 

_Just not now._

 

Tony looked (not peered) around a corner, and, seeing the common space clear, walked (not snuck) across to the back rooftop patio. Clint-slash-Bruce-slash-whoever was home must be doing something potentially productive with their day off, and he was grateful for it. Maybe they didn’t even know that the kid was here, yet; the situation had whittled down to a critical point of hysteria in the span of a single gasp, a quick text to his private phone and nothing more.

 

The floor was cool on his bare feet. Everything felt ultrasensitive, like it did after a recalibration of the arc, when his body seemed more alive than usual.

 

“Your heart rate has been at a sustained, high elevation, boss. Body temperature, too. You’re anxious—“

 

“Hence,” Tony said, opening the glass sliding door with a touch, “out.” He slid through, making a curt hand motion to mute Friday as he did it. Anxious, and other things he didn’t want to talk about.

 

Primarily that his body felt weirdly, creepily good, like he’d just run a few K’s with no chest pain for the first time in years. He needed--air. He limped gamely along the garden at the top of the building, then to one of the jutted outcroppings that allowed for discreet takeoffs and landings in the suit. Or for anyone else that might need to get to Stark Tower by roof; they had a lot of people that could fly, these days. He passed a manicured shrub, shrewdly hiding an exterior facet of the security system, and felt a small, affectionate pang. Pepper had put a lot of thought into picking the guy who had picked that. This, at least, made some sense. Pepper things usually did.

 

He stood at the concrete edge. Contemplated the unhandsome, craggy shoulders of his city’s skyline to the south (ignored the tiniest, tiniest voice that remembered the feeling of Peter’s legs trembling around his thighs and asked: would Friday catch you in time? But that passed quick), then turned on his heel, spinning, twitching the fingers of his right hand minutely in his sleeve to dial. He wanted, among other stuff, a cigarette. He took a breath in, held it.

 

“Tony,” said Pepper.

 

“Kid’s here,” he breathed out. To anyone else he might have appeared to be talking to thin air.

 

“I heard. How is he? In one piece?” Pepper’s voice vibrated not quite directly into his brain, but the next best thing nano-tech could afford, sitting cozy against the tiny bones afloat in his ear. She could have been standing in front of him, all the way from Four Seasons Singapore.

 

“Come again?” he asked, bristling, crazy-tide lapping suddenly high. _As if I could have hurt him_. The thought blurted out all primal-ugly and hot before he could stop it. Something old inside him raised its hackles. Before his forebrain really got to vet that thought, consider the gut-curling, sick truth of having sex with a fifteen year old boy who had been virginal only a matter of hours before, Pepper pushed on.

 

“Peter’s really been through it. Forced bond from a classmate that didn’t take, almost killed him. I thought you’d been briefed?”

 

_“I was briefed,”_ he snarled, mostly embarrassed at himself for having jumped down her throat so quickly, but still part indignant. He hadn’t been prepared for this, not properly. He thought of the surprise meeting Fury had held, the twist of all the Avenger’s faces as they sat together on the common couches trying to process the need-to-know-only info, and backed off further. “He’s…fine, I guess,” he continued, awkwardly swallowing down a sudden wave of nausea. If plowing a kid into next week and leaving his ass was considered fine, maybe. “Wasn’t when he got here, though.” The memory of the state of him, torn into, plundered, a disturbing image of any omega whether they were yours or not, brought his blood to a boil again so quick, for a moment he might’ve swapped the arc for a car battery and hooked his heart straight up to the clips. He took a few more deep breaths to calm down, because holy shit, what was happening to him, while Pepper kept talking. He didn’t really listen to much of any of it until he heard her voice lilt up in a question.

 

“Sorry, what?” he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. Pepper’s sigh sounded crisp on the other end.

 

“So, you mated him?”

 

“…Yeah,” Tony ground out, looking at his feet. “Yeah, I fucked him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

But that was the thing: it didn’t feel like fucking. It ended up all…weird. No problem as a concept—or, no, _huge_ problem as a concept, but as a base logistical function, not so much; he could charm the pants off anything with two legs while sleep walking, even on a bad day, and had prepared himself to draw on the more unsavory ‘just get through it and make your dick feel good’ sex moments of his life For the Good of the Order. Not that there were many, but a few. He could dig deep in the old skeezy ethos and wear the grease of it over him like a protective coating; _okay, sure_ , he could keep the kid from dying and even make him feel okay while doing it, give him the ride of his life and put him away wet. He’d given a few million to New York’s children’s hospitals over the years. He had kneeled down in bed over Peter’s body and thought, terribly, that this might be in the same vein.

 

And then Peter had just, opened.

 

Brilliant, blindingly good. Pure and simple, down and deep. Fitting to Tony and filling him in so perfectly, so solidly, that after their knotting Tony thought for a moment he might not ever get up again from against Peter’s back with the weight of his soul, or what remained of it. Peter was bright; something awful in Tony craved it to paw and covet that light, cling greedily to with both hands.

 

Pepper was saying other things. Tony, who had once flown through a rent in the universe and into space, the loneliest moment of his life, realized he would do it again for Peter in a heartbeat. Would do it one hundred times.

 

The new vividness, the blood-hot beast thing that had woken up in him, flexed, raising a whine in his ears. He wasn’t supposed to—fuck up this bad (care this much), and he wanted to pound something; go fucking nuclear, in a way he hadn’t since he promised Pepper, and the rest of them, that he wasn’t going to be a playboy fuckhead, anymore. A real, triple-decker, twenty can-can dancers on stage, open bar and fireworks indoors because we _can_ sort of explosive despair.

 

“I didn’t really believe you would do it, you know. To your credit,” Pepper said, at last.

 

“Thanks,” he managed.

 

The thought that it was credit he didn’t ultimately deserve washed over him, and his head tipped back, rage fizzling anticlimactically. Sad dregs sat at the bottom. He closed his eyes and pretended he could smell the city on the wind from the top of the tower, though all he felt was cool air.

 

Without warning, a warm thrumming opened up in his chest, like fingers pulled across guitar strings. Plucking out deep chords; a yank, a jerk. A moving. A feeling that his skeleton should no longer be holding him up _here_ , but rather _there._

And _there_ was a place where Peter was now awake, and doing something that Tony couldn’t decipher yet but that made his stomach flip, scary, disorienting. Like getting snatched up by the Hulk mid-air, and having no choice but to be carried in the direction he’s going, too, after impact, or die. The kind of collision that makes you hope all your teeth make it.

 

There was an ugly, metallic taste, and blurring. It took him a few seconds to notice that, first: he’d already made it back to the sliding patio door, which he must have come to at a dead run, chest still heaving. Second: he hadn’t ended the call.

 

“Tony? Hello, Tony? What—?“

 

He ended it as he returned over the threshold, Pepper’s voice swallowed up, not a peep. He busted into the common space, and a second realization hit as he skidded to a stop, a more noble one: that thing which had awoken in his body was called, under one name, desire. Same as the old ache of responsibility that had pulled him out from under hangovers and the deep thrall of addiction to save the world, some dark days, but more direct; the desire to protect a city, just narrowed down into a desire to protect one person. Or not narrowed, just compounded.

 

Intensified, all booster-rocket white heat.

 

Peter, thank Christ, was not fighting for his life, or even crying again, but just sitting curled up on one of the long, low wraparound couches, a muffin or something sitting innocuously on his lap, untouched. Uninjured, a quick assessment made sure, checking every bare inch of skin beneath his shirt. He was not alone: Bruce and Clint now sat on either side of him, both watching Peter like was the most fascinating thing they’d ever seen. And they’d been up close to aliens without their primetime makeup on. The real nasties.

 

All three looked up at him. Clint and Bruce were dressed casually, which was to say: Sports Dad and Science Dad. Tony looked at the space between his teammates knees and Peter’s bare thighs and wondered, for a blind moment, if the element of surprise was enough to kill them both.

 

An honest-to-God growl rumbled out of him, making Peter flinch into the couch cushions, before Tony rolled his shoulders and wiped the thought away, watching Clint raise his hands slowly and Bruce lean back. Their scents cut at the roof of his mouth, sharp, intrusive, but the clear supplication helped to dull it.

 

“Woah there, champ,” said Clint.

 

“Mr. Stark,” croaked Peter, eyes wide. He looked too pale for Tony’s liking.

 

Bruce was almost smiling, the awed wonder of discovery wide in his eyes, still gazing at Peter. “This is crazy, Tony. They were right. He still smells…. Appealing.”

 

The _even after you’ve knotted him_ was heavily implied, easy fact to detect. Tony had smelled hundreds of bonds over his lifetime; knew how deeply an alpha and omega’s scent twisted into each other after mating. Sulked through the jealous pang that buffeted him until he learned to ignore it, to reach for the next heat-blocked co-ed that found their way into his bed after a night on the press junket.

 

This also implied that Bruce wanted Peter. The beast in Tony absolutely knew what Bruce was capable of and if he thought he was getting his giant green dick anywhere near his omega—

 

“Stay back, big guy,” he gnarred, stance bracing wide. Bruce jumped back again, hands flying up, too. In any other situation, Tony would’ve laughed, but he just moved in, instead. Peter cowered more closely into his shadow.  

 

“I thought we were supposed to have an expert for this!” Bruce insisted as Tony stiffly inserted himself onto the couch, left side, between Peter and Clint. “Somebody who knew what to do about—all of it!”

 

_Oops._ Might have been Tony’s fault. His arm came around Peter’s shoulders, settling down as he scented him. The contact felt heavenly as he remembered, vaguely, telling Friday and his security staff to completely lock down the private portion of the Tower until his say so, and not much else, Peter’s exhausted, unconscious, body lolling in his arms. He pocketed the thought for later. Now, Peter was still trembling, looking cagey, surrounded by alphas on all sides. Tony’s bite was a fat red wound on the back of his neck, now clearly visible, bleeding sluggishly into the cotton of his t-shirt. Tony felt proud, and ashamed. Needed to lick it some more to make it healed strong.

 

“He looks hungry, but we can’t get him to eat,” Clint said. Peter ducked his head towards the crook of Tony’s neck, and Tony could feel his embarrassment radiating outward through their bond. He ran his fingers through the hair at the base of Peter’s skull.

 

“What’s—is that true, kid?”

 

“M’, uh, yeah,” he admitted, fingertips dancing over Tony’s thigh, like he was afraid to touch him fully. “Please, Mr. Stark,” he whispered, tiny _. Please let me_.

 

Tony’s hand captured the one hovering over his leg and pressed down firmly. The instant power trip was making him dizzy and hard at the same time.

 

“ _Eat,_ Peter.”

 

Something about the way the kid absolutely fucking devoured it, clawed hand and crumbs everywhere, teenage hunger with no finesse to it, made the dark, still-sad part of Tony tighten up again. Tighter still as he understood that Peter was afraid to eat without his alpha watching over him, exposed and vulnerable in the presence of others. He’d fucked him up, made him whole and better and so perfect for their bond. His dick throbbed in his pants.

 

Clint got up and returned with a glass of water, which Tony allowed him to pass to Peter directly. Peter’s fingers looked painfully slender next to Clint’s.

 

“We don’t even know if he’s on contraception,” Bruce said as they all watched Peter drain it. Peter shook his head uncertainly, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He’d smelled like suppressants (and needy baby alpha cum), before Tony got his hands on him, but badly failed ones. No birth control on the heat from his skin. Tony’s stomach lurched, kicking himself. He could’ve-- God, the kid whose sloppy seconds he got could’ve--

 

“He doesn’t smell pregnant,” Clint said quietly. Tony remembered the poor bastard had a wife and kids, somewhere, and wondered how _that_ was going to work. Clint’s arm twitched, and Tony watched him hold back from trying to reach across and touch Peter himself, before tucking his hand prudently beneath his thigh, like a schoolgirl.

 

Tony probed their bond intentionally, calming down enough to think for a second, and found this to be true. No burgeoning new light, just Peter’s already familiar warmth, his fluttering anxiety, and a low flame-lick of need. Peter was still wet; Tony’s stomach flipped and twisted, suddenly insecure, unsure if he could satisfy.

 

Bruce, seeming to sense this, rolled his lip into his mouth and leaned closer.

 

Tony, in a move that surprised even himself, paused. _It’s Bruce Banner_ , his hindbrain whined. Bruce, who was universally, all around, just a good guy. Nobody ever complained about Bruce except maybe to say he was too nice for his own good and could afford to take a few days off here and there because having too much stress was an actual job risk. And Clint. Steady as anything. Both great guys, maybe even the best; brothers, kind of, if Tony was that sentimental type, which he wasn’t. But he liked the thought enough—just enough-- to allow Peter to turn in his arms to face Bruce.

 

A low growl came steadily from Tony’s chest, making the arc buzz, as Bruce slowly, deliberately, brought his hand up and petted Peter, long strokes trembling down his bare arm. Peter was still as a spooked animal, breathing in tiny gasps that pushed against Tony's ribs. 

 

“Is this okay?” Bruce murmured, and Tony wasn’t sure who he was asking, only that he had been holding his breath without knowing it. They all were, unable to breathe with the thickness of their combined scents, Peter unfurling again, so beautifully, as something terrible unlocked in Tony, too.

 

It was like, he thought-- how oils from your hands can destroy butterfly or bird wings. By touching Peter, allowing him to be touched, Tony was making him filthy. Bruce took Peter’s open face slowly by the chin and Tony plummeted to a third realization, there on the couch: he couldn’t stop doing this.

 

That they, collectively, would not stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are life and love and what made me return to this fic <3 thank you all for your kindness on the previous chapters, i read and cherish every one of them


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